But coastal Oregon weather could be capricious in any season—a lesson she should have learned long ago.
Brandishing the gardening implement, she sprinted toward the tri-colored dog, weaving through the symmetrical beds.
“Hey!” She waved the trowel in the air. “Get out of there!”
The pup lifted his dirt-covered snout. Started to wag his tail. Reconsidered the scowling woman racing toward him with weapon in hand and skedaddled toward the tall hedge that separated her farm from the adjacent property.
Within seconds, the white tip of his tail disappeared as he wriggled through the dense greenery.
Huffing out a breath, Jeannette gave up the chase. The dog was gone—for now. Her time would be better spent repairing whatever destruction her unwanted visitor had wrought.
She continued to the bed, muttering as she surveyed the damage. Two of the plants had been uprooted, and the pesky beagle had started in on a third.
This was as bad as the last attack—except he hadn’t absconded with one of her plants this go-round.
Gritting her teeth, she stalked back to the shed to retrieve a shovel. The ripped-up plants had to be her top priority.
But once they were back into their beds and watered, she was going to march next door and have a little chat with her new neighbors.
Shovel in hand, she retraced her steps to the pillaged bed, casting a dark look toward the hedge that hid the small house on the adjacent property.
She should have inquired about buying that lot too, when she’d purchased this one.
But the three acres she’d bought were already more than her plants and tearoom required. An acre or two would have sufficed.
However . . . none of the other parcels of land she’d viewed had had a path at the rear of the property that led to the dunes, which provided access to the vast beach and deep cobalt sea of Driftwood Bay. Plus, the microclimate in this particular sheltered spot was perfect for lavender.
So despite the excess acreage, the location had been too good to pass up—especially since the land on one side had never been developed, and the house with new owners on the other side had been occupied by an older man who kept to himself as much as she did . . . and who’d long ago planted an insulating privacy hedge.
She dug into the bed she’d augmented with truckloads of rotted fir bark and aged horse manure, casting another glance toward the shrub border.
Strange how she’d had no inkling her former neighbor had sold the property until the moving van showed up a week ago. And he’d done nothing more than flick her a brief, disinterested look as she’d driven past while he was directing the moving crew from his front porch.
Then again, she’d never gone out of her way to be sociable, either.
A twinge of self-reproach niggled at her conscience, but she quashed it as she resettled the first lavender plant in the fertile earth.
There was no reason to feel guilty. On the few occasions their paths had crossed, he’d barely acknowledged her.
And just because she didn’t attempt to engage people didn’t mean she was antisocial. She was always polite to her customers at the town farmer’s market and in her tearoom, and she smiled and waved at familiar faces in town . . . even if she rarely stopped to chat.
But she was never unfriendly to anyone.
Although that was about to change.
She eased the second traumatized Super French into the hole she’d dug and doused the roots with water. If fate was kind, all of the plants would recover from the shock of their abrupt extraction.
Wiping her palms on her jeans, she detoured back to the workshop, snagged her jacket, and cut across the gravel parking area at the front of her property that was empty of customers’ cars on this Wednesday morning.
At least the pup hadn’t launched his sneak attacks on a weekend, while she was busy serving afternoon tea to a roomful of people paying a hefty sum for a couple of hours of peace and genteel elegance.
She circled around the end of the hedge that lined her drive and strode through the adjacent yard, toward the front door of the small bungalow that could use a fresh coat—or two—of paint and some landscaping.
Maybe it was better she hadn’t known it was up for sale. The temptation to buy it—and protect her privacy—would have been strong.
And more maintenance would only have added to her already long to-do list.
As she approached the door, the muffled sound of yapping penetrated the walls.
Apparently the dog was a barker as well as a digger.
That figured.
She stepped up onto the porch, took a deep breath, and pressed the bell. It was possible the new owners would be nice. Apologetic, even.
One could hope, anyway.
Confrontation wasn’t high on her list of favorite activities.
But these people needed to get control of their dog—and she intended to make that crystal clear before she returned home.
Whether they liked it or not.
2
Was that the doorbell?
Cocking his ear, Logan tightened his grip on Toby, whose frantic yaps and contortionist squirms conveyed in no uncertain terms his displeasure at having the mud removed from his paws with a damp rag.
Hard as Logan listened, it was impossible to tell if someone was pressing the bell, given the din in the kitchen.
“Molly!”
The little girl peeked around the edge of the doorway, finger still in mouth.
“Would you look through the window next to the front door and see if there’s someone on the porch?”
She hesitated . . . then disappeared toward the living room, dragging the blanket behind her.
Toby made another lunge for freedom.
“Not so fast, buddy. I mopped the floor once already today. You’re staying on this rug until I get your paws clean.”
He finished the third one as Molly reappeared in the doorway.
“Did you see anyone?” He threw the question over his shoulder.
“A lady.”
Wonderful.
If ever there was an inopportune time for visitors, this was it.
Toby upped the volume of his barks and wriggled harder—but in the infinitesimal moment of peace between woofs, the bell chimed again.
Logan sighed.
Someone really wanted to talk to him.
And if it happened to be a neighbor stopping by to welcome him, he couldn’t afford to be rude. At this stage, he needed all the friends he could get.
“Sorry, fella. You’re stuck with me until those paws are clean.” Swooping the writhing, barking beagle into his arms, he headed for the front door, flinching at every woof.
His hearing was never going to be the same.
In the tiny foyer, he wedged the pup in the crook of his arm, freeing one hand to flip the lock and twist the knob.
As the door swung wide and the female visitor came into view, Toby fell silent. As if he was dumbstruck by the vision on their doorstep.
Logan could relate.
Despite the smudge of dirt hugging the graceful curve of her jaw, the stunning woman on his porch took his breath away too.
Early thirtyish, she was six or seven inches shorter than his six-one frame, with model-like cheekbones. Her classic oval face was framed by long, light-brown hair with golden highlights. Generous lips, big brown eyes, trim figure—she had it all.
As Toby resumed barking and wiggling, his own vocal cords kicked back in.
“Hi.” He raised his voice to be heard above the yapping. “Can I help you?”